


Vamp

by numinousnic



Series: The Plague Upon the House [5]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (The Declining East Coast Silent Film Industry Actually But Shhh), 1920s, Avatar of Fear Zine, Canon-Typical The Lonely Content (The Magnus Archives), Depression, Emotional Manipulation, Femme Fatale, Gen, Golden Age Hollywood, Grief/Mourning, Historical, I Did RESEARCH For This; Please Appreciate My End Notes, Original Statement (The Magnus Archives), Period-Typical Sexism, Statement Fic (The Magnus Archives), Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:53:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27890305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/numinousnic/pseuds/numinousnic
Summary: As if she herself is the moon,I thought, and the notion sent a strange shiver through me. I had read enough romantic poetry to know what the Romans consideredtheirDiana to represent. And here before me stood Corelli’s Diana: as awful and alabaster as the page she’d stepped from.Case 9511806. Sybil Burr, née Hollister. Incident occurred in Manhattan, New York City, in the spring of 1921. Victim’s name given as Albert Capellani. Original statement recorded 18th of June, 1951, by the Archivist, Angus Stacey, on behalf of the Magnus Institute, London.An original statement written for theAvatar of Fear Zine.
Series: The Plague Upon the House [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1566694
Comments: 16
Kudos: 20





	Vamp

**Author's Note:**

> This is an idea I've had kicking around in my head at _least_ since I first conceived of the character of Nora, but pinch-hitting for the Avatar of Fear Zine finally gave me a chance to bring it to life! You don't need to have read _[Be Bold, Be Bold (But Not Too Bold)](https://tinyurl.com/yapye9wt)_ to enjoy this — while it takes place in the same AU timeline, this was written as a stand-alone piece — but if you _have_ read _Be Bold,_ consider this a behind-the-scenes look at Nora's early days as an avatar.
> 
> As previously mentioned, this is an original statement written for the [Avatar of Fear Zine](https://avataroffearzine.tumblr.com/), a _Magnus Archives_ fanzine of art and writing focused on avatar OCs and avatarsonas. I highly encourage you to [download/read the PDF of the full zine](https://tinyurl.com/yak4kkz8) — the hard work and creative talent that went into making this zine is incredible, and I’m so honored to have been a part of it!
> 
> _**Content warnings are in the end notes.** _

_[TAPE CLICKS ON]_

_[CLINK OF TEA CUP]_

**ANGUS**

There you go.

**SYBIL**

Oh, thank you.

_[SIPS TEA, THEN SHIVERS]_

… Should it be so cold down here?

**ANGUS**

Mmh, no. But it’s usually rather boiling in the basement this time of year, so I welcome the change.

_[DESK CHAIR CREAKS]_

Forgive me for prying, but I couldn’t help but take note of your accent, Mrs. Burr. Tell me, what brings an American to London in the _summer?_

**SYBIL**

I’m… visiting. My daughter and her husband live in Aldeburgh, but... the Festival of Britain was a decent enough excuse to get down to London for a day or two.

_[SIPS TEA]_

I said I’d meet them at South Bank; I… didn’t want to worry them any further. 

**ANGUS**

Worry them about —? _[Stops, then chuckles]_ Silly question, I suppose. You’re _here,_ aren’t you?

_[SYBIL DOESN’T RESPOND]_

**ANGUS**

_[Coughs]_ Right. If you could give your name and a brief description of what you’re to talk about to the recorder, please — 

**SYBIL**

Sybil Burr — _Hollister_ back then; I hadn’t yet married. And I’m here about… a woman. A woman who — _[Exhales shakily]_ I’m so sorry; my nerves are a wreck, even _with_ the tea. I don’t think I can — 

**ANGUS**

You’re doing wonderfully, Mrs. Burr. And I assure you: the rest of your story will come easily. _[Clears throat]_ Original statement recorded 18th of June, 1951, by the Archivist, Angus Stacey, on behalf of the Magnus Institute, London. Statement begins. 

**SYBIL**

I don’t know what my life would have become without films to keep me company. Growing up on the Lower East Side, I couldn’t walk five blocks in any direction without stumbling upon a storefront converted into a nickelodeon with blinding electric lights and loudly painted signs. And any time I had five cents, I would squeeze into whichever theater I could and take shelter for as long as possible. It didn’t matter what the afternoon’s program included — I was always enthralled, spirited out of my solitary childhood by the fantastic images flickering before my eyes.

Unlike the few friends I had, I never had any illusions or ambitions of becoming an actress; I was far too plain and painfully shy. But despite this deficiency, I _did_ have two qualities that I was convinced would help me get a job at a film studio. First, I was a born and bred New Yorker, back when my city’s film industry could still rival Hollywood’s. And second, I was an excellent typist. So as soon as I heard the news about William Randolph Hearst’s incorporation of Cosmopolitan Productions, I ran right away to what had once been Sulzer’s Harlem River Park and Casino at 127th Street and applied for whatever work I could get. My gamble paid off, and I was hired on as a stenographer. 

I never expected the work to be glamorous, but it wore me down in unexpected ways. Being overlooked was one thing, but in the eyes of everyone else at Cosmopolitan, I might as well have been invisible: just another nameless girl from the typing pool. And I wasn’t alone in my despair. I could see it on the faces of my coworkers — Florence, Beulah, Corinne — whenever we received one of Frances Marion’s legal pads to retype into a polished script, always struggling to put her name and hers alone on that first page. Yes, she wrote the scenario and she more than deserved the credit, but where was _ours?_

Still, I must have managed to distinguish myself somehow. After two years of this drudgery, I was reassigned as executive secretary to Albert Capellani. He was a French director, but when the studios in his homeland shuttered during the First World War, he’d moved to the States to continue his career. Capellani had worked for an impressive string of studios, but despite the quality and artistry of his films, he’d never stayed very long with any one studio.

I had no idea why this was the case at first. From the moment Capellani arrived at Cosmopolitan, everyone seemed quite charmed by him. Rotund and red-bearded, he radiated geniality and good humor, and he was unfailingly polite to all, no matter what their role at the studio. I hadn’t realized just how resigned I’d become to being referred to as “Miss,” or _maybe_ “Sybil,” until Capellani offhandedly called me “Mademoiselle Hollister” that first week and I startled both of us by bursting into tears.

I... was so very ashamed to embarrass myself in front of a man as important as him. But Capellani — _Albert —_ offered me a handkerchief with such chivalry, and apologized so earnestly for any upset he’d caused me... I couldn’t help but forgive him right away. _[Sniffs]_ There truly wasn’t an _ounce_ of ill will within that man’s soul: only warmth.

I _did,_ however, come to see the reasons for Albert’s alienation from his industry. Though a fine director, he struggled with what he saw as the increased impersonality of filmmaking as it became more mainstream. “You can’t make photoplays as you make shoes,” he often exclaimed to no one in particular, with a frustration that only increased as the months passed. “Producing a motion picture is an _art,_ not a factory labor!”

Although Cosmopolitan was one of the rare studios more concerned with the quality than the quantity of their productions, Albert nevertheless clashed with them over that issue. But more often, his quarrels concerned money. Albert finished _The Inside of the Cup_ in mid-June, but he wasn’t paid for his work until he sued Cosmopolitan in late August; I drafted his suit myself. And while he was directing _The Wild Goose_ in the fall, his own former studio was sued for debts incurred on the insurance he’d taken out on it; I delivered the notice to him myself, too. 

Considering these conditions, it shouldn’t have surprised me when Albert took his family back to France that December for an extended vacation — or a leave of absence, as some less graciously termed it. He still had two films left on his contract, though, so I resolved to stay at Cosmopolitan: at least until his return.

I almost didn’t last the winter. The cheer Albert had brought to Cosmopolitan had fled with him, and those dull, dark days during which I sat idle in that empty office were some of the most dismal in all my life. Desperate to see friendly faces and keep myself occupied, I even ventured back to the typing pool once or twice, but the girls I was once so close to had since grown distant from me: politely resentful of the new position that had set me above and apart from them. Eventually, I realized the futility of reaching out, and I stopped trying.

But as spring came, so did whispers of Cosmopolitan’s next production: an adaptation of Marie Corelli’s recent novel, _The Young Diana._ Seizing the chance to do something that could be passed off as “work,” I bought a copy and read it at the office. It was as engaging as I expected, but even for Corelli, it was an unsettling story. Diana May, an intelligent, but unmarried woman rejected by her family and her fiancé for aging and becoming unattractive, submits herself to the experiments of a scientist searching for the secret to eternal life. Though Diana regains her youth and beauty, these come at the expense of her heart, and she returns to society with the aim of dominating and destroying the men who once scorned her.

This dark turn aside, Diana’s desirability was what drove the plot, so naturally, Hearst had seized on it as a vehicle for Marion Davies: his mistress and the star that all of Cosmopolitan orbited. And since Albert was one of the few directors who did not balk at directing Davies, Hearst wanted him on the film.

I will admit, I’d resigned myself to Albert never coming back to Cosmopolitan: even with Hearst holding his contract over his head. So I was as surprised as anyone when Albert sent a telegram to the studio to say he would return with all haste.

I still remember the date he did: April 30th, 1921. It was a stormy day in the city, and the biting bluster of the wind blew the rain every which way as I struggled against the elements to get to work on time for the return I’d almost given up all hope of seeing. But despite the fact that Albert and I ultimately arrived at the studio utterly drenched, the cream-colored cloche and coat of the woman accompanying Albert were bone-dry.

This woman had more in common with the cold marble of a statue than with mortal flesh. She was strikingly tall and stately, with a classically sculpted profile, and carried herself with an antique, but aristocratic air. Her hair curled just above the curve of her pale throat, the darkness of those waves made all the darker by a single white lock over her left temple. But her eyes were darkest of all: blacker and more depthless than a moonless midnight. 

_As if she herself is the moon,_ I thought, and the notion sent a strange shiver through me. I had read enough romantic poetry to know what the Romans considered _their_ Diana to represent. And here before me stood Corelli’s Diana: as awful and alabaster as the page she’d stepped from.

Though thoroughly bedraggled from the storm, Albert was aglow with an enthusiasm I hadn’t seen from him in a long time. With much aplomb, he introduced his companion as Nora Lukas, a countess turned expatriate — “and my muse of mystery,” he added with a smile and courteous kiss of her hand. 

Countess Lukas returned his smile, a faintly flattered, closed-mouthed expression that lingered on her face as Albert regaled me with the whole story: how they’d met by chance in the Bois de Boulogne while he was still torn about whether or not to return to filmmaking in the States — how she’d been so taken with the notion of him adapting her dear friend Marie’s novel that she’d offered him however much money he would need to fulfill his prior financial obligations — how she’d insisted on accompanying him back to Cosmopolitan to assist with production as needed. Not once during Albert’s story did that smile reach her eyes. 

The more Albert spoke of their meeting, the more convinced I became that something was deeply wrong about the Countess. Who was _she,_ to insinuate herself into Albert’s life like some British Theda Bara and seduce him back to the States while his family was left abandoned in France? And how could I convince Albert of her strangeness when he was so very under her spell — and happier than I’d ever seen him before because of it? 

I couldn’t. God help me, I didn’t even _try._ All I could do was stay helplessly silent in the face of the Countess’ dark gaze devouring all of Albert’s delight. 

And so, as the storms of April gave way to a sunless May, production on _The Young Diana_ began — on paper, but not in practice. Albert was unsatisfied with the script that screenwriter Luther Reed had initially pitched to Hearst, and he refused to start shooting until the script had been rewritten to his liking, _and_ to Countess Lukas’ tastes. And since the trio’s deluge of longhand notes and scrawled-out scenes demanded far more organization and attention to detail than the general stenographers could provide, I was desperately needed at these late-night writing sessions.

The main point of contention was the film’s resolution. Corelli’s novel ends not with Diana’s downfall or redemption, but with her triumph. Having driven her father mad, broken her former fiancé’s heart, spurned the scientist who restored her youth, and inherited the estate of a deceased suitor, Diana all but reigns over Paris as a celebrated beauty, despite her removal from society — and indeed, humanity. 

To say this ending scandalized Reed would be putting it mildly. His adaptation transformed the entirety of Corelli’s plot into a _dream,_ had by a woman who mistakenly believes her fiancé has abandoned her to elope with another. But once Diana realizes that her renewed youth has not regained her lost love, the real Diana awakens to find that the rumors of her fiancé’s unfaithfulness have been unfounded and happily weds him.

Although Albert had his own hesitations about Corelli’s ending, he was unhesitating in criticizing Reed’s. “It is utterly artificial and unsatisfactory,” he complained. “You cannot invest the moviegoer’s sentiments in one plot for four reels, only to quit it for an inferior one in the fifth — and _without_ concluding it!”

“But you cannot conclude a plot such as _that_ in the way that Miss Corelli does!” Reed said indignantly. “A woman such as Diana May should _not_ be applauded.”

Countess Lukas, lounging in the armchair beside my desk and smoking a cigarette, agreed with Reed, in a sense. “For such a woman,” she said, her throaty voice tinged with amusement, “mere applause will not do.”

“Then what _will_ suit that woman?” Reed asked sharply.

Countess Lukas smiled, wisps of smoke curling around the corners of her mouth. “Why, apotheosis,” she said. “To be a being above all others, exalted and unquestioned in her authority.”

Though my breath caught in my throat at her bold statement, some part of me could not help but admire her for it. Not for the first time, my mind’s eye spied the spirit of Diana May animating the Countess.

Reed was similarly shocked into speechlessness; even Albert, admirer of Countess Lukas that he was, was given pause. “That approach _would_ be more in line with Mademoiselle Corelli’s vision,” he said carefully. “But... is Diana’s libertine lifestyle one we should be promoting? Especially,” Albert added, “since she possesses eternal life.”

Countess Lukas laughed. “What else would one do with an eternal life but live it to the fullest?” she rejoined. “Such an infinite life already places Diana beyond the bounds of finite society. Why should you expect _her_ to abide by its fragile conventions?”

“Because she is a fiction, and so she must!” Reed exclaimed, clearly tiring of the argument. “As her writers, we must think of the women who will see her on the screen and follow her example. Thus, it benefits society — _and_ the reputation of this industry — for us to present a moral one.”

Countess Lukas coolly stared at Reed. “In _that_ case,” she said, “let us ask one of these women.” She took a long, slow drag of her cigarette, then turned in her seat to face me. “Sybil, what sort of woman appeals to _you?_ Reed’s Christian saint or Corelli’s pagan temptress?”

I gaped at her, utterly lost for words underneath her divine gaze. Her attention was so utterly focused on me, it was as if I was the only other person in the room — no, the _world._ But even as her forward question tinged my cheeks with a feverish flush, an icy tremor rippled down my spine at the hungry gleam in the Countess’ eyes.

“I… think women are more complicated than either of those types,” I finally managed.

Countess Lukas’ smile widened, and my heart shuddered when I saw her bared teeth. “There you have it,” she said, turning back to the men. “To write a story that will compel our audience, we must have a complicated heroine.”

Reed was hardly pleased at the answer, but he clearly saw he couldn’t continue to argue — and certainly not when Albert so readily accepted Countess Lukas’ judgement as gospel. And so the filming of this final script began, over a week behind schedule, the morning after that fateful choice.

Albert preferred to keep shooting a small, intimate affair, so as to set his actors at ease and elicit natural performances from them. As such, when Countess Lukas swept onto the studio floor that first day, an icy unease crept over all: particularly Marion Davies, our Diana May. Still, Albert seemed to be in higher spirits with her around, so all involved with _The Young Diana_ resigned themselves to Countess Lukas haunting the production. After all, she wasn’t in anyone’s way — all she did was stand beside Albert or me and smoke her cigarettes and observe the spectacle. Nevertheless, the presence of the Countess was felt as keenly as an absence.

Day after day, filming became increasingly unnerving as the set grew more and more hushed than I would have ever thought possible. Davies and the other actors, accustomed to delivering their lines aloud despite knowing their voices would never be heard by the audience, were reduced to murmuring or mouthing if they so much as met the Countess’ gaze. Even the livelier members of the crew barely spoke above a stage whisper as they all but tiptoed around her, trying not to stare. Albert at first seemed unaffected by the pall slowly falling over set, continuing to bask in the Countess’ pale glow, but before long, his voice faltered under her gaze as well. In command of all attention, the Countess continued to smoke in silence, a ghost of a smile playing on her lips.

Try as I might, I soon felt all sensibility slipping through my grasp, and it took every ounce of self-possession and shame I had to tear my eyes away from her, even for a moment. Resplendent in white, the Countess outshone even the brightest of spotlights, their beams seeming to cast shadows everywhere else but where she stood. But her radiance was strangely muted and misted-over, as fantasmic as the films that had held me spellbound as a girl. And though some awe remained, what prevailed in me was an awful helplessness. 

Even now, I cannot fathom the sway the Countess held over us. I would have understood if the men had gazed at her with desire and the women had glared at her with disdain, but we all looked at her the same way: with a worshipful devotion, with a desperate longing to be acknowledged, perhaps even adored in return. No other person mattered to us but _her._

With our days so consumed by the Countess, production slowed, then ceased entirely. And _that_ brought Hearst down to the studio — and on Albert’s head.

Though Hearst curtly dismissed Countess Lukas and me from Albert’s office before he started on his tirade, no closed door could conceal his ire. Before storming back outside, he told Albert in no uncertain terms that he would complete _The Young Diana_ on schedule — and with Reed’s original script — or Hearst would void what remained of his contract and withhold any future payment.

“And as for _you,_ madam —” here, Hearst rounded on Countess Lukas “— I don’t know who you are or why you’re here, but you will _not_ upstage Miss Davies. Leave, or you will be made to.” 

Though Hearst’s harsh words weren’t meant for me, I couldn’t help but quail all the same. Countess Lukas, smoking in silence throughout the confrontation, simply met his eyes. Then, when he paused his ranting to breathe, she blew out the smoke from her cigarette into Hearst’s face.

Hearst began to cough violently, stumbling back and pounding on his chest. As the smoke seeped into his suit and soaked the air with the stinging scent of sea-salt, Hearst fell to his knees, one hand vainly reaching out for aid. But the Countess only turned on her heel and swept out without another word, the cool composure of her gaze freezing into breathtakingly cold contempt.

Even after an ashen Hearst managed to stagger out, the shadow that had been cast over Albert at Hearst’s ultimatum and Countess Lukas’ exeunt could not be lifted. He remained shut up in his office for hours before finally emerging that afternoon, his countenance far too weary and full of woe for a man of his years. Still, he mustered a smile for me, sad as it was, and told me to take the rest of Friday off. “We will worry,” he said quietly, “about this wretched film on Monday.”

After a day like that, I should have been glad to have an afternoon to myself. But as I wandered aimlessly through the city streets, forcing myself to enjoy the unusually bleak spring weather, I couldn’t shake the strange worry that I had... left Albert behind. 

My sudden fear didn’t make an ounce of sense, but once I’d had that thought, I couldn’t forget it. So as the overcast afternoon darkened into evening, I found myself back at 127th Street, hoping beyond hope that Albert had gone home like everyone else, and that, having reassured myself, I could finally do the same without this unfounded guilt.

I never made it to Albert’s office. To reach the stairs, I had to pass through the long, empty corridor running by the studio floor — and beneath the door, a faint sliver of light shone out.

Before I could grow any more fearful, I slipped inside without a sound.

In the heart of the yawning gloom that had swallowed up the studio floor lay one of the many lavish sets for _The Young Diana._ It was the courtyard of Diana’s Parisian estate, where Corinthian columns entwined in ivy flanked a marble fountain that bloomed from beds of pale roses. The set gleamed with the gauzy glow of moonlight, yet all but one of the spotlights were dark.

The hazy beam of the sole spotlight illuminated Countess Lukas, catching the shimmer of every single diamond sewn into the snow-white silk of her evening gown. At first, she was the only one I could see: standing in statuesque tableau before the fountain, dressed in one of the splendid costumes meant for Davies. And then I saw the tremor of the shadow she cast before her and, stopping dead in my tracks, realized that it was not her own, but _Albert’s._

**_“You are alone in the world!”_ ** Albert said. His voice was hoarse, as if straining to make himself heard over the thunderous silence. **_“Am I right or wrong?”_ **

The Countess’ lip curled. **_“How could y_** ** _ou_** **_be wrong?”_ **

I knew these words: from Albert’s own hand, from my typewriter keys, from the abandoned title cards. They were from _The Young Diana_ ’s final scene as written by Corelli: the scene Reed and Hearst had rejected, the scene Albert had retained at the Countess’ command. And now they were being spoken here, resurrected one final time for a reason that I was afraid to fathom.

**_“To the family who once knew you, you are lost!”_** Albert continued. **_“And to the lover on whom you seek to be revenged —”_**

The Countess cut him off. **_“But I_ ** **_am_** **_avenged.”_ **

Albert stared at her, dread dawning on him as surely as the light the Countess cast. That bright haze was beginning to wash over him in some strange new way: curling around his face like cigarette smoke, creeping around his limbs like heavy mist.

With a single step, the Countess loomed over him. **_“My beauty fills him with longing,”_** she declared. **_“The thought of me ravages his soul and body. And with his passion, comes the consciousness of_** ** _a_** ** _g_** ** _e_** ** _.”_** She raised a hand to Albert’s face, fog trailing from her fingertips. **_“The years shall pass me by evermore — but they shall carry_** ** _him_** ** _into oblivion!”_**

Albert’s eyes widened in fear, but his body was frozen in place at her touch. **_“Mercy!”_ ** he begged, and his voice was far too broken to be an act. **_“Have you no human mercy?”_ **

The Countess smiled, sensual and scornful. **_“I,”_** she purred, **_“am human no more.”_** And with that, she swept her hand back through Albert’s hair, baring his throat.

I could have sworn I’d gasped. My scream shattered the silence instead.

And in an instant, those dark, devouring eyes locked with mine.

With a flick of her wrist, the Countess cast Albert to her feet and advanced on me. Before her ghostly light fell away from Albert’s crumpled body — before her phantom form overshadowed mine — I could have sworn that his red beard and ruddy face looked — no, they _were_ pale: pale as a corpse, drained of their once-lively color wherever the Countess’ hand had lingered.

And the Countess, with her fair face and black eyes, looked more alive than ever.

As numb with terror as I was, I felt a single icy tear course down my cheek. For all his folly, Albert had been a good man — certainly no man worthy of Diana’s wrath. And compared to him, who was _I?_

The Countess smiled down at me, almost sympathetic. And as she reached for me, the answers came with cold clarity. I was young, and naive, and nameless, and — 

— and I was _alone._

“Not anymore,” she murmured, as if she could see right through me. “Not for very much longer.”

And as her cold hand caressed my wet face, her eyes as dark and depthless as the abyss where the angels must have fallen, I... surrendered myself to drowning.

_[SILENCE, BROKEN ONLY BY SYBIL’S BARELY-SUPPRESSED SOBS]_

**ANGUS**

I’d... assumed that silver blotch on your cheek to be a birthmark. Is that _truly_ where it came from? 

**SYBIL**

Who else _could_ it be from?

_[SHE COMPOSES HERSELF AS BEST SHE CAN, THEN CONTINUES]_

The... last thing I remember before I fainted was the white, ageless face of the Countess. But when I came to, all I saw was the aghast, worried face of one of the set builders — _Joseph,_ as he later introduced himself. As he waved smelling salts under my nose, he explained that he and a few other crew members had heard my scream and come running, but by the time they’d arrived — _[Inhales shakily]_

Albert had suffered a heart attack; he’d been rushed to the hospital as Joseph tried to revive me. And he _did_ live, thank God, but... I never saw him again after that night. Albert broke his contract with Cosmopolitan and returned to his family in France as soon as his failing health permitted him. And with Albert gone and the production of _The Young Diana_ in ruins, there was no reason for me to stay, either. 

I think the film was finished the following year, by a different director, but I didn’t go see it. You understand.

**ANGUS**

What of this… Countess Lukas? Where did she vanish to?

_[A PAUSE, THEN SYBIL EXHALES]_

**SYBIL**

I… never _did_ tell you what brought me here, did I? Why I’m making a statement at your Institute after keeping quiet for thirty years.

**ANGUS**

Well, do enlighten me, Mrs. Burr.

**SYBIL**

_[Bitter]_ It might as well be Miss Hollister. My husband’s dead.

**ANGUS**

_[Taken aback]_ I’m... sorry for your loss.

**SYBIL**

No more than I. Joseph… _[Swallows]_ Despite… how we first met, he could still believe in the fantasies he helped build for the screen. It took me many years to see beyond the darkness that I knew lay behind that artifice — let alone look forward to going out to the movies again — but when Joseph passed last month... it was like that old, smothering shadow had never left.

Not wanting me to grieve alone, my daughter Louise invited me to spend the summer with her. She’d shipped overseas as a nurse during the Second World War and married a British soldier shortly after the war’s end; I’d been to Aldeburgh — her husband Henry’s hometown — for their wedding, but not since. So I agreed, and prayed that the sea air might cleanse me of some measure of my sorrow.

I… took some of Joseph’s ashes with me in my suitcase. I’d already either buried or scattered most of him, but I wanted to throw a pinch in the North Sea, so a part of his soul could be near Louise. So early one morning, I slipped out of the house before she or Henry got up and, jar of ashes clutched to my chest, traced a path through the slowly waking streets of Aldeburgh down to the shore.

The breeze that whipped off the white-capped waves was an unusually cutting one that morning, and a thin mist blanketed the beach, making me lose my footing in the unseen sand more than once. But I pressed on, and once the cold salt waters of the sea were seeping through the soles of my shoes, I bade a silent farewell to what remained of Joseph.

As I emptied the ashes into the tide, I caught a flash of white out of the corner of my eye. Turning to look down the shore, I at first saw nothing but sand fading into a thickening mist. But as I stared into that pale oblivion, I glimpsed a lone figure — strikingly tall and swathed in a cream-colored coat, of such pallor as to be more fog than woman — gazing, silent and melancholy, out over the grey sea.

My heart went out to this fellow wanderer, and I almost approached her, wanting to know what sorrow she carried and to console her, if I could. But as my first step towards her sunk into the sand, her head turned, and two black eyes bored into me.

Even at a distance — a distance that only widened as I whirled about and fled up the shore, back to Louise and Henry and Aldeburgh — I _knew,_ beyond the shadow of a doubt, that this was the very phantom that had haunted me for the past thirty years.

The Countess hadn’t aged a day. In fact… she looked _younger._

_[CLICK]_

**Author's Note:**

> _**CW:** Depression, period-typical sexism, emotional manipulation, unhealthy relationship dynamics, threat of death, grief/bereavement._
> 
> **_The Young Diana_** is a real silent film, as is the eponymous Marie Corelli novel that **Luther Reed** (also a real person) adapted the script from! As it's currently considered to be a lost film, information about it is a bit scarce, but its entry in the [AFI Catalog of Feature Films](https://tinyurl.com/ycmd6odu), as well as contemporary reviews from _[The Film Daily](https://tinyurl.com/ycdoyvfo)_ and _[Variety](https://tinyurl.com/yau5abxm),_ gave me a good idea of the general plot.
> 
> While I didn't have time to read _The Young Diana_ in its entirety, _The Female Vampire and the Politics of Gender_ by Donald Travis Anderson (University of Alberta Masters Thesis, Fall 1992) and "In Vanished Summertime: Marie Corelli and Popular Culture" by Richard L. Kowalczyk _(Journal of Popular Culture_ 7:4 [Spring 1974]) both provided comprehensive analyses of Corelli's novel. I _did,_ however, read [the epilogue](https://tinyurl.com/ybgagoxb) and adapted dialogue from sections of it to create the ending scene acted out by Albert and Nora. I also set Albert and Nora’s meeting in the Bois du Boulogne: a public garden at one end of Avenue Foch, which is the street address of Diana's Parisian estate!
> 
> **Albert Capellani,** the original director of _The Young Diana,_ and **Cosmopolitan Productions,** the production company behind the film, are also very real! The biography _Albert Capellani: Pioneer of the Silent Screen_ by Christine Leteux (UP of Kentucky, 2015), which I _did_ read in full, was a veritable gold mine of information (and also my source for the quote "You can't make photoplays as you make shoes," which Capellani said during a 1916 interview with _Motion Picture World!)_ For information on Cosmopolitan Productions, I consulted _Hollywood on the Hudson: Film and Television in New York from Griffith to Sarnoff_ by Richard Koszarski (Rutgers UP, 2008). For general information on women working in the early American film industry, I consulted _Pink-Slipped: What Happened to Women in the Silent Film Industries?_ by Jane M. Gaines (U of Illinois P, 2018), particularly the chapter "Working in the Dream Factory."
> 
> Finally, some notes on names:
> 
> — **Sybil Burr (née Hollister)** is named after two famous "vamps" of the silent film era: **Alice Hollister,** who established the "vamp" archetype in her role as the "adventuress" Sybil in _The Vampire_ (1913), and **Theda Bara** (born Theodosia Burr Goodman), who uttered the iconic line of "Kiss me, my fool!" in her role as the Vampire in _A Fool There Was_ (1915).
> 
> — **Florence, Beulah,** and **Corinne** are named after three prominent female screenwriters of early American film: **Lois Weber** (born Florence Lois Weber), **June Mathis** (born June Beulah Hughes), and **Anita Loos** (born Corinne Anita Loos). ( **Frances Marion,** who I also mention, is another such screenwriter; she wrote scenarios for Cosmopolitan Productions during this period.)
> 
> — **Joseph** is named after **Joseph Urban:** the set designer for many of Cosmopolitan Productions' films, including _The Young Diana._
> 
> — **Louise** is named after **Louise Glaum:** another "vamp" of the silent film era, famous for her role as cabaret performer Adrienne Renault in _Sex_ (1920).
> 
> — **Henry** is named after **Henry Long,** one of the protagonists of **["A Warning to the Curious" by M. R. James](https://tinyurl.com/y6wevqbw)** ; the short story is set in the fictional town of Seaburgh, which is based on Aldeburgh, Suffolk.
> 
> Need more Nora content? Check out [my redraw of the movie poster for _The Young Diana_](https://tinyurl.com/y97szjor) _,_ and read _[Be Bold, Be Bold (But Not Too Bold)](https://tinyurl.com/yapye9wt)_ (and after that, perhaps, the other fics that make up my _Plague Upon the House_ AU)! And once again, _please_ [check out the complete Avatar of Fear Zine](https://tinyurl.com/yak4kkz8) and give all of the incredible creators involved in that project some love!


End file.
